


Dragon Rearing with Dad and Latula

by mitspeiler



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Riders, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Apprenticeships, Awesome, Cool, Dragons, Gen, Hell, Volcanoes, rad, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitspeiler/pseuds/mitspeiler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Latula Pyrope's dream comes true when the most badass dragon rider in the land takes her on as an apprentice.  Shenanigans ensue as she learns the ways of truth, justice, and radness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragon Rearing with Dad and Latula

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rezi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rezi/gifts), [Lordlyhour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordlyhour/gifts).



            Somewhere in Alternia, a village whose name I do not care to recall, there once lived a young lady whose goal was nothing more or less that to be the most _rad_ person that there had ever been.

            The tradition of that village was that in the first week of spring, all local children who would turn thirteen years old that year would be taken up as apprentices by any local tradesman, excluding their own parents.  The village had a long streak of producing particularly exemplary workers, so eventually tradesmen were invited in from far afield, including members of such exotic and high ranking positions as normal village children would never have a chance of meeting, much less working with.

            It was rumored that this year, a dragon rider would be coming.

 

            As _rad_ as that would be, Latula didn’t believe it.  She did, however, believe in the knight looking for a squire.  “I’m gonna go say hi,” she said, flashing the peace sign and trying to run off.  Her mother grabbed her by the collar.

            “Dearest,” she said, in a tone that indicated she was trying to restrain herself in public, “you know that I have a colleague coming in from the city who wants to train you—”

            “Yeah,” Latula snapped, “that’s why I’m trying to get someone cool to notice me!  I don’t want to be a stupid advocate—”

            Her mother swatted Latula with her dragon’s head cane.  Terezi snickered at her from near their mother’s legs.  “Little twerp,” Latula snapped, and Terezi shrieked and hid behind her. 

            Terezi wasn’t frightened of her big sister; it was a shriek of joy.  “Why do you have to leave anyway,” the little girl muttered.  “Why can’t she apprentice with someone here?”

            “The local tradesmen all have prospects lined up,” their mother noted, adjusting her sharp red glasses.  Latula had always admired them.  She used to think they were made of rubies.

            Nearby, the local blacksmith snatched up that Egbert kid, literally.  The man was faster than the wind and easily twice as strong; there was just a white blur and suddenly Egbert had a hammer in his hand and a leather apron on his scrawny frame.  Terezi giggled.  Wasn’t the blacksmith the older brother of one of her boyfriends?  And why the hell did her little shit of sister have _so many_ at the tender age of nine when Latula couldn’t even get a date?

            Feferi Peixes went skipping along the square, dancing in and around the people.  The bubbly girl always brought a smile to Latula’s face.  She gave a wave and Feferi responded in kind, preparing to dash a across the street at that very instant.  She didn’t get two steps before a stately looking woman with hair white as bone and eyes like lilacs stopped her in her tracks.  The woman cupped Feferi’s chin and forced her gaze upwards.  Feferi was terrified.  “You seem promising,” said the woman.  “Come.  You shall be a witch.”  And with that, Feferi was dragged off with a look of pure terror on her face and a last solitary wave towards the Pyrope family.

            Latula’s mother sighed deeply, the slightest slouch coming over her military bearing.  “That’s why I’m not leaving you unattended until my colleague shows up—”

            “Oi!” cried the voice of Jeffrey, the local imbecile, “this fookin’ wanker’s troina steal me pie!”

            “I never did!” snapped Broderick, the local buffoon.  “Advocate, this tosser’s gone loopy!”  The two of them were standing a ways down the street, and had a single pie between them.  They were tugging and pulling on the tin and liable to break it but somehow the pie was still pristine.  Mrs. Pyrope squeezed her cane so hard that Latula heard her red leather gloves give a great loud _*creak*_ but the advocate did nothing.  A pie, thought Mrs. Pyrope, did not warrant abandoning her child on a day where she could legally be taken by a representative of say, the prostitute’s guild—

            “Help!  Advocate Pyrope!” shouted old Nana Egbert, hobbling into the street with her cane.  “That imbecile and his buffoon made off with one of my pies!”

            “Hey you old bitch,” Broderick snapped, “he’s _my_ imbecile, not the other way around!”  Latula’s mother groaned loudly and slapped her forehead with a loud snap.  “Terezi, watch your sister.  I won’t be a moment.”

            Terezi scampered up onto a convenient stump and glared at her older sister, black eyes bugging out with the intensity of her gaze.  Latula laughed, and then had the wind knocked out of her by a powerful force gripping her around the mid-section.  “’Sup girl?” asked Meenah, shouting in her friend’s ear.  “Hey, let’s ditch the kid and go look for some interesting people to take us.  I heard there’s a dra—”

            “You’re with me,” said a stately and beautiful woman whose hair could not be adequately described with language other than perhaps a contraction of ‘cyclopean’ and ‘labyrinthine’.  She grabbed Meenah by her braids and dragged her off, the girl swearing all the way.

            “What even are you!?”  Meenah shouted, trying to fight the woman’s iron deathgrip on her scalp, freckled face becoming crimson with rage.

            The woman laughed evilly.  “A baker.”  Meenah may well have died of despair at that point.

            For the next ten minutes Latula tried to stay put while also trying to look appealing to any interesting people that might be walking by.  She picked up a stick and brandished it about like a foil; the Pyrope matriarch had taught her daughters to defend themselves, and to do so well.  Terezi meanwhile, flicked pebbles at her sister to keep her from doing anything too flashy lest she be snatched up by a mercenary or an adventurer, or really anyone at all interesting or cool, radical even.  A great big bull of a man with an enormous lance and a horned helmet watched interestedly, but when Latula gave him an exuberant smile, he shook his head and indicated the scrawny Nitram boy next to him, looking like he was about to shit himself with terror.

            Latula was horrified that someone less cool than she would become a knight and she would be stuck with being an advocate.  Suddenly, she felt a chill roll down her spine.  As if in slow motion, she turned, looking down the road in the opposite direction from where her mother had gone.  A tall, elegant looking man in an immaculate white suit was striding down the road, _towards her_.  He had a civilized bearing and a confident stride, but he seemed to _reek_ with normalcy and professionalism.  Latula remembered thinking that her mother was far too stiff; this man was the god of stiffness, with his immaculate white suit, complete with fedora, and a severe-looking smoking pipe held firmly between his teeth.  It wasn’t curved but long and straight, made of some shiny white material.  What even the fuck was he?  A roaming _accountant_?  This was terrible and would only become more terrible.

            Latula made eye-contact with the man, and he started towards her, never breaking his stride.  Latula did the only thing she felt she could; she ran.

            She did not get far.  Terezi had hopped down from her log and tripped her up.  “No running Latula,” she sneered, “mom _said_.”

            “Please don’t let him take me,” Latula squeaked, covering her face.  “I don’t want to be an accountant!”

            “Ah, Latula Pyrope,” said the gentleman, suddenly standing right over her.  “I thought it was you,” he extended a hand towards her.  Resignedly, she took it, and was instantly lifted up to her feet.  The man was surprisingly strong.  “I’m your mother’s former associate from the city.  Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

            At least he wasn’t an accountant, thought Latula.  But what she muttered under her breath was “yeah.”

            “Speak more clearly,” he admonished.  “Those of our profession need strong voices that can carry information _far_ and _clearly_.”

            “Yes sir,” she enunciated, like her mother had taught her.  While she hadn’t been allowed to formally train her own children, Mrs. Pyrope had still taught them a great deal.

            “Good,” he said, as if that was the end of the matter.  He put the pipe away inside his jacket, and she noticed that it was made of some fine material with a pearlescent sheen, and from a different pocket produced a whistle.  He blew into it, and an instant later the sky went dark.  Latula looked up, afraid.

            An enormous white dragon was descending on the village.  It beat its wings once to slow itself and the sound was like thunder, the sudden pressure change popping Latula’s ears; everyone’s ears to be exact.  It landed heavily with a roar like a giant’s trumpet, musical and terrible all at once.  Its eyes were closed.  “I am rider Egbert,” the gentleman announced.  “You may have heard of me as the White Harlequin.”

            Latula put her hands to her cheeks and screamed with joy, hugging the mysterious stranger.

 

            A few minutes later, her mother rushed back.  “Mom I love you,” Latula shouted, hugging her as well. 

            Terezi looked like she was about to cry.  “I thought she was going to be an advocate like us!”

            “She wouldn’t be able to stand it dear,” Mrs. Pyrope said sadly, placing a hand gently on top of her younger daughter’s head.  “That’s not the life for her.”  She stiffened slightly and gave a curt nod.  “Harlequin,” she said.

            “Redglare,” he replied with a much more respectful one.  “It’s been too long.”

            “Take care of her,” Latula’s mother warned.  Turning to her eldest daughter, she handed her a small rapier, perfectly suited to Latula’s current size, with a hilt of red leather and a turquoise stone in the pommel.  Then in an unprecedented move, she kissed her daughter’s forehead in full view of the public.  This unheard of gesture silenced all thoughts and questions in Latula’s mind, just as intended.

            “Come,” said Egbert, putting his hand on her shoulder.  “Let’s go find you a dragon.”

            And with that, he lifted her up onto the dragon’s back, and with a mighty beat of its wings, they were off.

 

            The dragon was named Pyralsprite of the burning eyes, Latula knew from countless stories about this heroic pair, and he was glorious.  And to think, soon she would have one of her own, all to herself!  She had her arms wrapped tightly around the rider’s waist and her cheek pressed into his back, barely sheltered from the high wind as they whistled, or rather _thundered_ , over the countryside.  “Oh my God,” she shouted, voice carrying clearly and loudly even through the high winds of their altitude.  “This is so amazing!  How do you know my mom?  Is it true that you killed a hundred men with a pie tin?  Where’s your glorious white armor—”

            “I’ll answer the last first,” he said, “Because it will be the most immediately useful.  You’re looking at it.”  With a start she realized that his suit was almost the same color and texture as the scales she was sitting on.  Looking closely, she saw that it was made from thousands of tiny interlocking triangles and not fabric at all.  “Scales from the first molt,” he said, patting Pyralsprite’s shoulder.  “After that, they’re too inflexible to make comfortable clothing from.  You’ll see some riders in heavy plate made of the stuff but they look like barbarians and really the difference in strength is minimal, all it really does is slow the wearer down.  When your dragon molts I’ll make you some similar.”  Latula nodded enthusiastically, imagining herself in a gorgeous dragon-scale greatcoat, to match her eyes, riding on the back of her trained dragon, a pair of rapiers in hand.  She needed two; it would be cooler that way.

            “How do you train them?” she asked.  “I’ve heard a lot of really awesome things about that but—”

            “You don’t train dragons, firstly,” he interrupted, finger raised scoldingly.  “Dragons choose to engage in a mutually beneficial business practice with you, and that is all.  As to _how_ , well everyone has a method.  You will discover yours, or you will die.”

            “Huh?” said Latula.  Though she had understood what he said, it couldn’t really dampen her spirits right now.  She noticed that they were decelerating, and that Pyralsprite was drawing his wings in.  They were heading for a landing.  “Woohoo!” she shouted, letting go of Egbert to raise her arms into the air.  Before she even knew what was going on, she was flying backwards off Pyralsprite’s back, and then an instant later Egbert’s hand shot out and roughly grabbed the front of her shirt.  It would have been terrifying if it wasn’t totally exhilarating.

            With a loud crash, Pryalsprite landed against the side of a mountain; it shook like a bell under the blow, and so did Latula’s skeleton.  Egbert was unaffected.  He leapt down from the dragon’s back, and Latula followed, slightly less elegantly, which is to say that she slid down the dragon’s flank and scraped her cheek on the rough side of his scales.  “So boss,” she said.

            “You’re using that word incorrectly,” he said, shaking a finger again.  Latula nodded happily.  “Innit rad?”  He sighed.

            Latula drew her rapier and gave it a few experimental swings.  Although it was a stabbing weapon, it had the slightest curve to its edge, making it useful for slashing as well.  The bluish metal flashed like water as it cut through the air.  “Now what!?”

            The Harlequin did not respond immediately, but produced his pipe, stuffed a wad of tobacco inside, and ignited it with a wooden match; no lighters for him.  Latula wondered at how stupid she’d been; there was no other pipe like it in this part of the world.  The elegant material was carved all over with harlequins and she saw that it was all made of laminated dragon-scale, plated with steel on the mouthpiece and bowl.  Its profile was more like a plumbing pipe than a smoking one, and it was over a foot long.  That was one of his signature weapons, the dueling pipe.  The other—

            He gestured with the dueling pipe, cutting a trail of blue smoke through the air.  The top of the mountain suddenly exploded filling the sky with ash and fire.  A trail of red liquid stone, like the blood of the earth, leaked a slow but inexorable path downwards.  “The dragon eggs will be hatching soon, from the heat of the eruption,” he said, taking a deep pull from the dueling pipe.  “Find one.  Make it believe in you.”

            Latula’s eyes widened.  “But…”

            “I believe in you,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder.  “I chose you over my own son.  He could never be a dragon rider.”

            Something clicked in Latula’s head.  “ _John_ is your son?”

            “This trial would kill him,” said Egbert.  “He has his own destiny, and it’s not with me.  But you’re Redglare’s daughter.  You can do this.”

            It was very subtle, but something in his paternal tone made her want to prove him right about her.  It still made her uneasy, what he’d said about John.  She steadied her resolve and set off up the mountain.

 

            There was a cave near the summit of the mountain and the ash and smoke was so thick that Latula could barely breathe by the time she reached it.  The far wall was glowing cherry red with heat from lava just feet away, but it was safe from the ash until the wall inevitably burst.

            There hadn’t been any enemies to fight on the way up because all of the animals and monsters that surely inhabited the hillside were apparently less cool than she, and had run away from the fiery holocaust of destruction.  That’s what she told herself.  She had to be cool.  Cool people didn’t cry when the hot ash got up their nose on the last stretch of the journey, burning like nothing else in their lives had or ever would and making them gush up two fountains of blood from their noses and making them think they would die.  They certainly did not wonder if they would ever smell again.

            She removed her hand from the front of her face, sticky red blood forming a thick, blackish scab on her hands; her face must look even more awful than that.  There was a clutch of eggs leaning against the wall, as big as watermelons and infinitely more colorful; each one was like a jewel, an incredibly gaudy jewel.  And each one was broken.  The dragons were all gone.

            “Shit,” Latula said, a tear sliding down her left eye.  “I really wanted to do it.”  She slumped against the wall, shoulder burning from the heat even here, so far from the lava.  She didn’t think she could go back now, having failed. 

            There was an ugly crack and a flake of something cherry red and flaming hot flew through the air right towards her face.  Not as tired as she’d thought she was, she smacked it out of the air with her rapier.  “Dammit,” she hissed, thinking the wall was about to crack and spew lava all over the chamber.  There, Latula thought, near the bottom, a crack, with something moving inside—

            It wasn’t lava.  She hadn’t seen it because it was just as red as the wall, but there was one egg at the bottom of the pile that hadn’t hatched, until now.  She was smiling, and running forward, heat be damned.  It was like an oven in that cave and she could feel her skin burning as if she’d been out in the sun too long, and she couldn’t even taste her own blood anymore, just smoke and that was probably a terrible sign, but Latula didn’t care because she still had a chance at being a dragon rider.  She fell to her knees and slid the remaining distance, reaching out with her hands and helping the dragon break out of its shell.  It was adorable, she thought, cradling the little creature.  It didn’t match her eyes, but she could make due.

            Running from the cave, hair smoking and even smoldering in places, covered in ash and blood, Latula had never been happier thanks to the weight in her arms.  The dragon mewled gently into her shoulder as she ran down the slope, going faster than was safe or even humanly possible.  Finally she reached a mostly flat stretch about a third of the way down where she could finally slow, and stopped with a hearty stomp just before the slope started again.  Latula raised the dragon up into the air.  Still young, it lacked visible foreclaws and its wings were near-invisible gossamer films on its flanks.  Its scales were wet and soft as velvet, but they would be harder than steel soon, and the deep purple light in its eyes would be able to blind those foolish enough to look at them.  It mewled at her and nuzzled her chin, scraping and licking off the dried blood like a nursing baby.  She didn’t think she’d ever loved anything as much.  “Cherrytail,” she whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> This brilliant idea was generated [here](http://madnessmantra.zxq.net/homestuck/prompt.html) and the general plot was created by a certain Lordly bastard on the comments thread for this fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/988603/chapters/1950112).  
> This is such a good idea though. Why. How did some stupid random generator give me such plans and ideas?  
> The first paragraph was an allusion to Don Quixote. Obviously. Who wouldn’t get that reference?  
> Cherrytail is the name I gave a Scalemate I generated in the Homestuck Playset for Garry’s Mod. He glitched out and couldn’t be deleted or destroyed and would randomly warp around the map. We joked he was evil and every time a red Scalemate with purple eyes appeared ever after, I would make the sign of the cross and whisper that Cherrytail was back for revenge.  
> This is like, my first time writing Latula as a main character and my second time writing Dad as one, so bear with any inconsistencies. Not to toot my horn but if this is your first time reading me, look at my other stuff. I’m better than this.


End file.
